The Greatest Generation Indeed

Tom Brokaw bestows on those who were born following the First World War the title The Greatest Generation. I whole heartedly concur with this distinguished journalist regarding the people who profoundly influenced my generation: my parents and their peers who struggled during the Great Depression. Then just when the hard times were starting to turn around, they were called to defend our nation against Hitler along with his cohort in evil, Mussolini, and the army of the rising sun.

I have not formally studied the history of World War II however I spent Sunday nights sitting alongside my father watching World at War. This of course does not allot me carte blanche to analyze and discuss the military campaigns and political maneuverings of this massive conflict. However it did plant a seed of interest in me regarding the struggles and stories of those citizens who toughed it out on both foreign soil as well as on the home front.  

For the past twenty years I have worked closely with survivors of those times. As time progresses on we lose more and more of these wise and hearty souls. And sadly, many who are still with us today are unable to articulate their personal sagas due to various debilitating illnesses. Yes, I can go to any library or peruse online the many sites that devote cyberspace to reminiscences of those who were there but that does not come close to hearing these priceless stories firsthand along with the opportunity to gaze into the eyes that saw so much. Sometimes I garner more from the pauses and the faraway look in their eyes; for they speak volumes.

Take, for instance, my mom who grew up in a rural community, the poorest of the poor. Her father died in 1929 leaving her mother to support and bring up nine children on her own. Her stories were truly heartbreaking. She would tell us of wearing dresses her sister Irene sewed from potato sacks and having to go down to the rectory to obtain left over scraps for a family who otherwise would have gone to bed hungry; a humiliating experience for a young girl. Her memories of Christmas differ vastly from mine; they were fortunate if they received an orange and a few pieces of candy. Her teeth and those of  her siblings rotted from lack of dairy products and other important nutrients; by the time they were in their twenties they all had partials. What really floors me though is that these children of dire poverty all grew up to be fine upstanding hardworking affluent people. Her five brothers all served overseas in the war, and the girls worked hard at jobs to help support the family. My grandmother, Elisabeth, along with many other men and women in similar circumstances should have been awarded diamond studded medals for their perseverance and toil. Most likely they would have declined such honors, being children and grandchildren of pioneers and immigrants they did what they had to do and did not expect a thing in return.

Stories of hardship during the war years abound from my clients and residents. One lady related to me the other day how her husband was away for four years. Four years! And then she said the words I have heard so many times, "He never talked about it when he came home." Then she continued and told me how a relative stationed in the desert finally received a new pair of socks in the mail. When he took off his boots to put them on all that was left of his old pair were the rims rolled over his boots. Imagine having your boots on so long your socks rotted away. And since I’m on the topic of feet I’ll never forget a gentleman I took care of in his home who was captured by the Germans and spent a great deal of the war in a German POW camp. He suffered many adversities, not the least frostbitten feet which gave him problems the rest of his life. Did he ruminate regarding this? No, he came home, worked hard, provided a beautiful home for his family and died in his nineties. My dad laughs about picking weevils out of the food, if you didn’t get them all out; well they were a good source of protein.

And of course there were the ladies keeping the fires burning on the home front. They went without so much and came up with imaginative methods of using their ration coupons to their best advantage. They faithfully wrote their sweethearts letters, never knowing if they would receive them. After my mother’s death we found a box of these letters and a diary buried underneath clothes in her dresser. I think many women of that era kept those treasured letters, correspondence that gave them a little ray of hope that their loved one was perhaps still alive. Some of us are have heard the nickname Rosie the Riveter; in fact many Rosies and Maries along with Leonas, Ritas and an untold number of women  found work in factories throughout the USA due to the shortage of manpower. My godmother Ruth spent her days serving her country and awaiting her fiancée working in the butter factory where she labored and talked her days away until Melvin came home. And of course I cannot neglect to mention the courageous women who joined the men overseas in various positions; especially the nurses,who risked their lives behind the scenes to take care of the wounded. Not only were their roles medical in nature but also spiritual, for many tenderly gave from their souls to heal their wounded brethren. 

I have seen many newsreel and photos of this long grueling war. However the film, Saving Private Ryan, really brought the gruesome reality of this war home to me. The opening scenes depicting the soldiers landing and storming Omaha beach left me shaken. Those young men, kids, scared to death but yet moving around those hideous hurtles while being blown to pieces. It’s a difficult scene to wrap one’s mind around. One of my clients recently travelled to Washington D.C. with a plane load of brother and sister veterans. A short trip, but nevertheless an opportunity for them to view the National World War II Memorial built in their honor. He returned proudly wearing his red cap and showing off his memorabilia. I wish I could have thrown him a ticker tape parade.